


Science is a Liar Sometimes

by unrealitycheck



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eddie is a health inspector, GAY AWAKENINGS, M/M, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Stan’s life is perfect because he deserves it, Superpowers, inspired by I Am Not Okay With This, the Losers own a bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23362786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrealitycheck/pseuds/unrealitycheck
Summary: Eddie’s life is a mess.He’s forty and still lives with his mom. His asthma medicine is all a lie. He hasfeelingsfor an annoying comedian.And to top it all off, he’s developing superpowers.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 98





	Science is a Liar Sometimes

**Author's Note:**

> Over the last couple of months, I’ve been amusing myself with the idea of Eddie as a health inspector. But I could never think of an actual plot to go with it. And then I watched _I Am Not Okay With This_ (which is amazing!) and was like, Hey, what if Eddie was a health inspector with SUPERPOWERS?
> 
> Title of the story, of course, is from _It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia_. Which also inspired the bar setting.

Every morning, Eddie watched Perfect Stanley Uris kiss his perfect wife Patty on the doorstep of their perfect, cookie cutter house, while their two perfect, curly-haired children waited for the school bus.

Perfect Stanley Uris worked for an accounting firm. He wore neckties with birds on them, yet he always managed to look like he had stepped off the cover of _Forbes_ magazine. Everything he did was neat and precise, including the careful way he always parked in his driveway. Eddie had never seen him park crooked.

And every fucking morning, there he was on his doorstep with his stupid briefcase, kissing his wife goodbye like a fucking TV family from the 1950's.

_Have a swell day at work, dear!_

_Gee, honey, I sure will!_

God, they were unreal. And there was no avoiding them, since they were right across the street from Eddie, living out their sparkling, idyllic little lives right in front of him. He was surprised they didn't have their own theme song.

Bright and early, the Urises started their day like clockwork. There were the two little shits, a boy and a girl, coming out of the house with their backpacks on. Patty at the doorway, wishing them good luck at school. And finally the man of the house, Perfect Stanley Uris, emerging with his briefcase and his bird-patterned tie, ready for a fun-filled day of accounting.

 _That family belongs on a postcard_ , Eddie thought, pausing on his own doorstep to stare at them. _A beautiful fucking postcard._

It made his breath come short every time he stopped and stared. Like a vine from Patty's flower garden had crept across the street to wrap itself around Eddie's throat. Goddamn Perfect Stanley Uris, with his life all neat and ordered like the table of contents in an award-winning book. Eddie would never have his shit together so completely. He would never be that _happy_. He would never—

_CRACK!_

There went the Urises' stone birdbath.

It sat in the middle of their front lawn, often a gathering place for neighborhood sparrows. Now it lay broken in two, cracked right down the middle, as if lightning had come out of nowhere to strike it.

But there was no lightning. Not even a cloud in the sky. The two little curly-haired shits, on their way to the bus stop, turned back and started shrieking. Perfect Stanley Uris climbed out of his car and marveled at the damage, looking—for the first time since Eddie had met him—like his entire universe had turned upside-down.

Eddie made a hasty retreat inside his home, slamming the door behind him.

"Oh, shit," he whispered.

His throat felt tighter than ever. He reached into his pocket, fumbling for his inhaler, thinking, _Shit shit shit shit—_

"Eddie-Bear? Is that you?"

Double shit.

His mother scooted toward him in her electric wheelchair. Eddie stood frozen, his back against the front door, one hand clasped desperately around the inhaler in his pocket.

"I thought you would have left already," said his mother, halting her chair just inches from Eddie's shoes. She peered up at him, determined to appear authoritative, despite the white streaks in her hair. "You don't look well. Have you been wearing your jacket like I told you to? The afternoons may be sunny, but there's still a chill in the air."

"I'm fine," said Eddie, fighting to stay calm. Fighting to _breathe_.

Behind his mother, a couple of framed pictures on the wall started rattling.

Sonia Kaspbrak's ears remained sharp as ever. "What was that?"

"I don't know. Maybe an earthquake."

Yes, maybe that was it. An earthquake! It was the only plausible explanation.

Sonia, even seated in a wheelchair, seemed to loom over Eddie. Just like she always loomed over him when he was a kid, casting her large shadow until it swallowed him whole.

"I think you should stay home," she told him. "You know I don't _like_ you running all over town, exposing yourself to who-knows-what. Call in sick today, Eddie-Bear, and I'll look after you. You're not _well_."

Eddie thought of the birdbath on the Uris lawn, spontaneously cracking in half. She was right. He _wasn't_ well. In fact, there was a very good chance he was losing his mind. If he peeked out his window right now, he might discover that birdbath standing whole, the way it always had.

And if it truly _was_ broken, well... there was always the possibility of an earthquake. The earth did strange things sometimes.

"I think I'll be okay," said Eddie, releasing his death grip on the inhaler in his pocket. "If I start to get sick, I'll cancel the afternoon and come home."

"I really don't think that's a good idea, Eddie. You simply don't _look_ well. At least let me take your temperature!"

The pictures on the wall rattled again.

Eddie swallowed hard, fighting the urge to use his inhaler. Not in front of his mother. Not _now_. He would never leave the house if she knew he was having an asthma attack.

"Mom, please. I can't call in sick today. There's no time to replace me on such short notice! I promise I will call you the moment I start to feel sick, okay?"

He got the hell out of there, fleeing once again, trying to block out Sonia's protests from the other side of the door. He couldn't stay in that house a moment longer. Eddie loved his mother—of _course_ he did—but she would have made him late for work. He knew she couldn't help it. She was a lonely old woman, hardly able to walk anymore. She didn't get out much. He couldn't _blame_ her for putting all her time and energy into fussing over Eddie. He was, after all, the only thing she had.

These thoughts didn't stop his hands from shaking, though. The moment he was alone, he took a much-needed blast from his inhaler.

When he looked across the street, Perfect Stanley Uris and the kids were gone. Only the birdbath remained, lying broken on the grass.

 _Earthquake_ , Eddie reminded himself. It was only an earthquake.

He got into his car and headed to work.

Eddie worked for the local government as a health inspector, much to his mother's constant worry. In order to protect her sanity, she didn't know nearly half the things he did on the job. Like last week, when he tested the water in a shitty neighborhood and found it _crawling_ with bacteria.

Today—if he was actually lucky for once—would hopefully pass without incident. Eddie was scheduled to give a safety demonstration at three different warehouses, followed by a routine health inspection of one restaurant and two bars.

The health inspections were his favorite part of the job. He had developed a reputation for being absolutely brutal and Eddie fucking loved it. The moment any establishment learned that Eddie Kaspbrak was paying them a visit, they immediately scrambled to pull themselves together. It was beautiful. Public sanitation had improved by twenty percent since Eddie joined the health department.

Perfect Stanley Uris probably couldn't beat _that_.

*

Near the end of the day, Eddie had started to calm down. Nothing weird had happened at any of the safety demonstrations. He had completed two inspections and found nothing worse than a leaky sink faucet. Now, he was back on the road, headed to his third and final inspection—a bar he'd never heard of called the Clubhouse.

According to Eddie's paperwork, the place was fairly new. It had been purchased three years ago by a Mr. William Denbrough and seemed to be steadily thriving. All past inspections reported top marks. Customer reviews said the bar was clean, up-to-date, and reasonably priced.

"We'll see how clean you are once _I've_ had a look at you," Eddie muttered to himself, both hands on the wheel as he turned a corner.

His phone started to ring.

_Oh, God damn it._

"Eddie-Bear." His mother's voice filled the car, a little scratchy over the speakers. "I need to know if you're all right. You haven't called."

"I said I would call if I _wasn't_ all right," said Eddie. "I feel fine!"

"I hope you're not saying that just to appease me. And are you wearing your jacket? You _know_ how susceptible you are to springtime colds."

"Yes, I'm wearing my jacket! And no, I'm not coming down with a cold! I'm actually on my way to an inspection right now, so I'm trying to drive—"

" _Eddie_." Sonia's voice became a knife, swiftly cutting him off. She was old and crippled and hardly left the house, but God, she could still silence Eddie with a single word. "I only do this for your own good. Because I know what's _best_ for you."

She scolded him a little longer, reminding him to take all his medicines, and by the time she hung up Eddie was nearly at the Clubhouse. He was nearly at the end of his workday, and _then_ he'd be back home with his mother, listening to her fuss over him and fuss over him and fucking _fuss_ some more until he felt like he would suffocate.

But that was unfair. She _did_ know what was best for him. She just tended to forget that he was forty and perfectly capable of making his own decisions.

When the Clubhouse came into view, Eddie pulled over and took a moment to steady himself. It seemed to get harder every day to pull himself together and fucking _breathe_.

What the hell was happening to him?

"Nothing," Eddie said out loud, catching his wide-eyed reflection in the rearview mirror. "Nothing is happening. Nothing is _going_ to happen. And if you start to feel weird, it's just your asthma acting up."

In fact, his asthma was probably the reason he'd been feeling so strange lately. Like he was losing control. At this rate, he would have to talk to Mr. Keene about getting his prescription refilled early.

But first he had an inspection to make.

The Clubhouse was quiet, since most people were currently at work during this hour. It _was_ very clean, like all new bars and restaurants tended to be. Give it a few more years and it would start to acquire that lived-in look that signified long-term use. When Eddie walked in, he found two men working behind the bar, while a third man was seated at a table with a red-haired woman.

"Fuck, marry, kill," said the redhead. "Justin Timberlake, Nick Carter, Nick Lachey."

The man seated across from her was muscular and very good-looking. His face was currently in a state of attractive distress. "Come on, Beverly. You know that's not fair."

"Okay, let's get the hardest one out of the way first. Which one would you kill?"

"That is _not_ fair!"

Eddie stepped forward, clipboard in hand. "Hello. I'm Mr. Kaspbrak, here to perform a routine inspection. Is Mr. Denbrough here?"

"That's me," said the guy in the flannel shirt working behind the bar. He came out to shake Eddie's hand. "I think you'll find everything up to standard around here."

Eddie gave his most razor-sharp smile—the kind that meant serious business. "We'll see about that."

And for a while he started to relax again.

Mr. Denbrough, who preferred to go by Bill, introduced his three employees. Mike tended bar and kept the accounts. Ben was the handyman. Beverly, to Eddie's surprise, was in charge of security.

"People who cause trouble in here are always sorry afterwards," she told him, and Eddie immediately believed her.

Mike gave him a tour of the bar while Eddie inspected the place, marking things off on his checklist.

"This place was a hamburger joint for several decades, until the owner retired and shut it down. That's when Bill bought it up," Mike explained. "The building's been around since 1938, but business was here long before that. It was built on the ashes of a nightclub called the Black Spot, which was burned down in 1930."

"Not a good idea, mentioning ashes to a health inspector," said Eddie, smiling. "No matter how old the fire is. You'll encourage me to test the air quality."

Mike smiled back. It was warm and reassuring. "Sorry. I'm something of an amateur historian. Don't even get me started on the foundations of this neighborhood. You'll fall asleep within the hour."

"I've heard worse," said Eddie, thinking of his mother sitting at home, ready to lecture him on his health.

Once the bar inspection was complete, Ben took over and brought Eddie to the basement.

"I have to warn you, we've got a spider problem down here," said Ben. "I don't think they're venomous, so if you see one, don't panic."

Eddie froze halfway down the stairs. "When you say spider problem, how much of a problem are we talking about here?"

"Well, whenever it's really bad, we put on shower caps when we're down here. It keeps the spiders out of your hair."

"Why don't you just call an exterminator?"

"Oh, no. We can't do that." Ben had reached the bottom of the stairs and stood patiently waiting for Eddie. "Mike won't allow an exterminator anywhere near the place. He has this thing about animals—bugs included. He says the spiders, no matter how annoying, have every right to make a home down here."

Eddie was still frozen halfway down the stairs. The basement felt stuffy all of a sudden. Harder to breathe.

The lights flickered.

"That's very noble of Mike," said Eddie, talking a little faster than normal, "but you _can't_ run a bar that's infested with spiders! You need to call pest control!"

"I wouldn't call them _pests_ , exactly. Unless you have arachnophobia."

The lights flickered again.

Ben glanced up at the ceiling, frowning. " _Do_ you have arachnophobia? I thought I would warn you about the spiders, just in case—"

_Crash!_

Somewhere in the distance, a bottle fell down and shattered.

Eddie's breath came in short, choking little gasps. "Holy shit," he managed to wheeze out, while he fumbled for his inhaler. "Do you have a rat problem too?"

"Not that I know of," said Ben. "Stay right there. I'll get a broom."

This was not happening. This could _not_ be happening. There was no way that Eddie, in the midst of an asthma attack, could _break_ things with his mind. It was a weak shelving unit, or a rat, or another fucking earthquake. Anything was possible!

Anything except mind powers, that is. Eddie was _not_ going to entertain the idea of mind powers.

"Did you, uh, happen to notice an earthquake this morning?" Eddie asked, still hovering on the stairs while Ben swept up the broken glass.

"I don't think so. I never felt anything."

"I'm pretty sure there was a tremor this morning. My neighbor definitely felt it."

_Yeah, he felt something, all right. Confusion for starters._

At least Ben had warned Eddie about the spiders. Several of them were lurking around, clinging to walls or hanging from webs, and somehow Eddie finished the basement inspection without completely losing his shit. He wouldn't call himself an arachnophobe, exactly, but the last thing he wanted to see was a haunted house exhibit in the bar he was inspecting. It couldn't _possibly_ be sanitary.

Ben assured him that the spiders rarely ventured upstairs.

"I'm pretty sure the customers have never noticed them. Anyway, all you have to do is startle them and they'll scuttle off into a crack in the wall."

"Scuttle off?" Eddie repeated. "Where, exactly? Back down to the basement, where you're letting them build their own underground web city? I'm sorry, but this is unacceptable. I think my colleagues will agree that an extermination is in order."

They were just exiting the basement when Eddie said this. Mike stood behind the bar, mixing drinks for Bill and Beverly, and paused to stare at Eddie.

"Extermination?" said Mike. "An extermination of what, exactly?"

Eddie waved his clipboard in the air. "Your spider problem! The only time your basement should be filled with cobwebs is on Halloween!"

Mike turned accusingly to Ben. "You told him no exterminators, right?"

"I tried," said Ben. "He's very persistent."

"I'm just doing my job," said Eddie. "Also, it's common sense! I mean, bugs are filthy! And do you know what happens when you allow bugs to infest the place? It invites other outdoor pests! Next thing you know, you've got a fucking zoo in your basement! Excuse my language, but I can _not_ allow this to continue when it could potentially jeopardize the health of yourselves and your customers, so you've left me no choice but to report this!"

Eddie was vaguely aware of a sixth person entering the bar right when he launched into this speech, but he didn't pay the newcomer any mind. So it was a shock when Eddie paused for breath and found this tall, dark-haired, four-eyed _asshole_ standing near the bar asking, "Who called the germ police?"

"Excuse me?" sputtered Eddie. "I'm the health inspector. _And_ a government employee! I think a little respect is in order here."

"Richie, don't start in on him," Bill warned. "His job is hard enough as it is."

"So is my dick whenever I—" Richie started, then abruptly cut himself off when Bill glared at him. "Okay, fine. Saving it for later."

"Let me get you a drink, Mr. Kaspbrak," said Bill. "You look like you could use one."

Eddie _felt_ like he could use one. His hands were trembling. The neon Budweiser sign behind the bar was flickering in and out, like it was signaling for help, and the sight of it caused a lump in Eddie's throat. He shut his eyes a moment and forced himself to fucking breathe, breathe, _breathe_.

The flickering stopped.

"Sure," said Eddie, pasting a shaky smile on his face. "I'll take that drink. Of course, I'm driving right after this, so nothing stronger than sparkling water for me."

"Water for me too, Bill," said Richie, helping himself to a barstool. "But hold the sparkles."

"Very funny," said Eddie.

Richie smirked at him. It was infuriating.

Actually, everything about Richie was infuriating. He would not stop _looking_ at Eddie. At first Eddie thought he was planning another joke about the bottle of Perrier that Bill handed him, but Richie didn't say another word. He just sat there staring in Eddie's direction, pretending to fiddle with his glasses every time Eddie caught him, while Eddie tried explaining to Mike that pest control was an unfortunate necessity.

"I know you think it's inhumane, but in the long run I think you'll appreciate— _What?_ " Eddie finally demanded, breaking off mid-sentence to meet Richie's stare.

What the hell was wrong with him? He normally didn't snap at people like this—at least not people he didn't even _know_.

"What is it?" Eddie tried again, calmer this time. "Is there something on my face?"

Richie's expression went dead serious. "Don't panic. But I think I saw something."

"What do you mean, you saw something? Saw something where?"

"Maybe it was nothing. But I'd better check to make sure. Don't move."

Suddenly Richie was off his barstool and standing right behind Eddie. Ben and Beverly had resumed their Fuck, Marry, Kill game, but immediately fell silent.

Eddie's heart pounded. He had to force his next words out of his windpipe. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, _shit_ ," said Richie. "It's a big one. I'll try to scare it off."

"Try to scare—are you talking about a spider? Is there a _spider_ on me?"

"Oh yeah, dude. A really big fucking spider."

"Where? I don't feel anything!"

"How about now?"

And that was when the explosion hit.

The so-called "spider" turned out to be Richie's hand on Eddie's shoulder, but Richie didn't get to enjoy his joke for long. For one deafening moment, the entire bar was drowned out by the sound of shattering glass. Every bottle on the shelves burst at the same time, spattering liquor everywhere, until the whole room smelled like a fucking distillery. Mike and Bill couldn't get away in time. Their clothes were splashed with booze and when Bill pulled off his flannel outer-shirt, he shook out shards of glass.

It was Ben's turn to stare at Eddie.

"Was that another... earthquake?"

"I didn't feel the earth move," said Beverly.

"Mr. Kaspbrak did earlier. He said there was a quake this morning."

Eddie had never felt such a tremendous shock.

He sat there at the bar with his hand wrapped around his bottle of Perrier, staring at the chip of glass that had landed a few inches away. It was a miracle he wasn't cut. A fucking miracle _no one_ was cut.

"That was not a fucking earthquake," said Richie. He was still standing near Eddie, uncomfortably close. "It was more like someone took a sniper rifle and shot all those bottles down!"

"There's no bullets," Mike pointed out. He was already grabbing paper towels to mop up the spilled liquor, while Bill fetched gloves and a broom. Mike shot an apologetic glance at Eddie. "I guess this reflects pretty badly on us. But you can inspect the shelves for yourself. They're sturdy as a rock."

It took a great effort for Eddie to get his vocal chords working again. "I'm not going to mark you down, if that's what you're worried about. This was a total fluke, I'm sure." He tightened his grip on the Perrier, to keep his hand from trembling. "I hope this doesn't set you back too much."

"It's not great," Mike admitted. "But we've still got plenty of beer on tap. And there's some bottles in the back storeroom."

"Great," Eddie choked out, feeling like the world's biggest asshole. He had to get out of there. He had to be _alone,_ before another catastrophe happened.

He gathered his paperwork, threw all the cash in his wallet on the bar counter to help pay for the damage—despite Mike and Bill protesting that it _wasn't_ his fault—and hoped he didn't look guilty as he hurried outside. Not that Eddie had any _reason_ to feel guilty. Sometimes bottles toppled off of shelves and shattered on the floor. It was called gravity! It was basic science! And that same exact science would surely prove there was no fucking way that Eddie could smash a bunch of bottles without even touching them.

Or cause a birdbath to crack in half.

Or lights to flicker.

Or pictures to rattle on the wall.

He had been having a very strange day, it was true. A very strange _week_ , when he allowed himself to think about it. Just yesterday, he could have sworn his pen started floating in the air, just for a moment or two, but he blamed it on stress and a trick of the light. And a couple days before that, he was stuck driving behind the world's slowest Toyota, cursing their lack of speed, when suddenly the car's trunk flew open.

Of course, there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for _that_. If that driver couldn't even go the speed limit, then why would they bother to shut their trunk properly?

He needed a day off, Eddie decided, standing alone outside the Clubhouse. A nice, long, relaxing day off. He wouldn't tell his mother. He would simply leave in the morning, like he usually did, and hole up in a hotel room where no one could bother him. Where nothing weird could happen.

He was about to get in his car when Richie came barging out of the Clubhouse.

_Shit._

Richie stopped and stared at Eddie, which was nothing new, for reasons that Eddie did not want to contemplate.

"Oh. Hey, Señor Kaspbrak," said Richie. "I left something in my car. I was just running out to get it."

Richie's car turned out to be the stupidly flashy Mustang convertible parked on the street, right in front of Eddie's BMW. Richie had two bumper stickers on his car, one stuck on either side of the license plate. The first one advertised a local radio station. The second one said:

**My other ride is your mom.**

"Nice bumper sticker," said Eddie. " _Really_ mature. You must be quite the comedian."

"I am, actually," said Richie. "Stand-up night at the Clubhouse, three times a week. You should check it out sometime."

"Uh, no. Probably not. I don't go out much at night."

"Why? Do you have a wife or girlfriend keeping you home or something?"

"No, I'm—uh, I live with my mom," said Eddie, taking a step backwards, suddenly feeling like he _shouldn't_ be here. "She's old and overweight and can't move without a wheelchair, so trust me, if you try to make some stupid joke about fucking her, the joke's actually on _you_." He hastily pulled out his phone to check the time, barely registering the numbers on his screen. "I have to go. Have fun with your stand-up."

"I'll be here tonight!" Richie called out as Eddie got into his car. "If your mommy lets you out of the house, you should really stop by. I swear there won't be any spiders!"

Eddie rolled up his windows without responding and took off.

He couldn't help noticing, when he glanced in his side mirror, that Richie made no attempt to get anything out of his car. What, did he come outside specifically to talk to Eddie and hid it under some lame excuse? Why the hell did he keep going out of his way to get Eddie's attention, anyway? First there was the staring and the spider prank, and then he kept inviting Eddie to his comedy gig, because—why? He liked to go around annoying people? He wanted to show off how supposedly _funny_ he was?

"Some people are just obnoxious assholes," Eddie assured himself. "And that's the end of the story."

But the whole thing made Eddie nervous, and when Eddie got nervous his asthma had a tendency to act up. Which reminded him that he _really_ needed to get his prescription refilled.

He made a quick call to his mother, telling her that _no_ , he wasn't sick and _yes_ , he took all his vitamins, and _if I'm a little late coming home it's nothing to worry about._ She then gave him a list of several things she wanted from the pharmacy, which was fine. No big deal. Because Eddie loved his mother, and he certainly saw no harm in picking up a few extra things for a poor, lonely old woman who could no longer walk on her own two legs.

Everything was _fine._

*

If you tied a blindfold around Eddie, stuck him in the middle of the drugstore on Center Street, and spun him around several times, he could probably still find his way around every inch of that store. He'd been going to Mr. Keene's pharmacy for as long as he could remember. Medicine, in his mother's opinion, was the cure to everything, and Eddie's earliest childhood memories revolved around trips to Mr. Keene's. By the time he was six, he could rattle off the names of all the major pharmaceuticals, along with their uses. By age nine, he was strapping a fanny pack around his waist, entrusted with the responsibility of taking his medicine twice a day, or else he would be a very sick little boy.

Little Eddie took this responsibility very seriously. He placed implicit trust in his mother and the pill bottles she gave him. Years later, this trust remained. Eddie always felt safer, somehow, whenever he stepped into the drugstore. Like simply being there could ward off any illness. His breathing grew steady as he walked up to the counter. His hands had lost their clamminess. _Here_ was a safe zone, where surely anything—even the strange events of the day—could be cured.

But when Eddie stood at the counter, clutching a basket filled with his mother's things, requesting an early prescription refill, old Mr. Keene made no attempt to get it. He stood there watching Eddie, frown lines creasing his already-wrinkled face.

When he finally spoke, he continued to frown.

"Would you mind stepping into the back office, Eddie?" Mr. Keene asked. "I'd like to have a word with you."

For the first time in Eddie's memory, he felt fear as he stood within those shelf-lined walls.

A wild thought took hold of him. _I hate to be the one to tell you this, Eddie,_ he imagined Mr. Keene saying, _but the latest studies show that asthma medicine gives you cancer!_

"Sure," Eddie choked out, watching in dread as Mr. Keene unlatched the little gate that led behind the counter. He beckoned Eddie into the back office and offered him a seat.

"How old are you now, Eddie?" asked Mr. Keene, lowering himself slowly into a chair. "Thirty-eight? Thirty-nine?"

"Forty."

Which sounded like the most pathetic admission of Eddie's entire life. He might as well tack on _single_ and _living with my mom_ to complete the picture of his sad existence.

"Over thirty years you've been coming to my store for your HydrOx prescription," said Mr. Keene. "In fact, you came in just last week for your last refill. What makes you believe you need another refill so soon?"

"Well, I've been getting a lot of asthma attacks lately. More than usual."

"You mean you've been panicking more than usual."

"Yes, that too. There's been a lot of stress on the job."

"So much stress that you've been using your inhaler a lot?"

"Yes—I mean, well, _no_ ," said Eddie, fidgeting under Mr. Keene's stare. He felt like the old man was playing a game without sharing the rules. "I haven't been using the inhaler for _stress_. That would be ridiculous. The stress worsens my asthma, and when the asthma's bad I use the inhaler. It's been happening so frequently that I feel it's safer to refill my medicine early."

Mr. Keene was frowning again. He reached up to adjust his thick-lensed glasses. "This has gone on long enough. _Far_ too long. Here you are at forty years old, still a firm believer in HydrOx. Well, I've brought you here to shatter that belief, Eddie, like I should have done years ago."

For the second time that day, Eddie sat frozen, struggling to find his voice. "What are you saying, Mr. Keene? That my medicine is _faulty_ , somehow? Is that what you're saying?"

"I'm saying that your medicine, which you've relied on so heavily all these years, isn't medicine at all. It's a placebo, Eddie. Your illness is all in your head."

The lights went out, plunging the windowless room into sudden darkness.

Eddie was breathing hard, feeling his chest constrict with asthma? Stress? Some other _bullshit_ he wasn't aware of yet? He was vaguely aware of Mr. Keene getting up and fumbling with the light switch, mumbling a mixture of swear words and apologies under his breath, while Eddie pulled out his inhaler.

He could barely make out its familiar shape in the dark. His constant companion since childhood. His fucking _refuge._

The lights flickered and came back on, flooding the stark-white office with an eerie, hospital glow. Eddie clenched his fist around his inhaler and stared defiantly at Mr. Keene, who stood blinking in a daze near the light switch.

"So you've been lying to me?" Eddie demanded. "For over _thirty_ years?"

"Reluctantly, Eddie. I lied to you reluctantly. Your mother is a very forceful woman. The type who makes things unpleasant when you disagree with her."

"So you've been going along with this—this _placebo_ since I was a kid! Unless you're fucking with me right now. Trying to get a rise out of me!"

A stack of papers on Mr. Keene's desk blew over, as if knocked down by a sudden wind.

Mr. Keene hardly seemed aware of it. His eyes remained fixed on Eddie. "If you're skeptical, it's entirely my fault. I should have told you the truth when you were a boy. I guess I kept hoping you would figure it out on your own and spare me the trouble. Haven't you ever noticed, over the years, that your so-called asthma attacks always seem to happen when you're worried or panicked?"

Eddie thought back to that morning, when the Urises' birdbath cracked in two. He desperately wanted his inhaler then, didn't he? It was only his mother's presence that kept him from taking a blast.

"And I'll bet you never needed it after a good bout of exercise," Mr. Keene continued. "Your asthma exists only in your head, Eddie. And I think it's about time you stopped living that lie."

 _It's not the only lie I'm living,_ Eddie thought, picturing flickering lights and shattered glass.

(He recalled, also, the way he felt when Richie invited him to his stand-up show, but he quickly shoved that aside.)

"I've heard enough," Eddie decided, getting up from his seat. "This is insane. My whole _day_ has been insane, and I'm going home."

Mr. Keene made no effort to stop him. Eddie hurried out of the office, back to the counter where his mother's items sat in a shopping basket, waiting to be rung up. His bewilderment turned to sudden, hot anger at the sight of that basket.

It was true that Mr. Keene had lied to him, but only because _his mother_ had lied first.

She was always, _Don't strain yourself, Eddie_ and _Remember your asthma, Eddie_ and _Of course you can't play baseball, Eddie. You're far too delicate!_

The memories made him sick. He desperately wanted to believe that Mr. Keene was wrong, that Eddie really _was_ delicate and his medicine was real, but he knew deep down that Mr. Keene spoke the truth.

That horrible truth was currently choking him, trying to squeeze the air out of his lungs. He couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, couldn't—

"Shit."

Eddie stood in the middle of the first aid aisle, surrounded by yet another disaster.

Boxes of bandaids, rolls of gauze, and tubes of Neosporin had tumbled from the shelves like an avalanche, burying every inch of the floor.

A little boy stood at the mouth of the aisle, gaping at the mess.

"Wow, did _you_ do that?" he asked, turning his shocked gaze to Eddie's face.

Eddie didn't answer.

He bolted for the door.

Okay, there was something seriously wrong with Eddie. He couldn't ignore it anymore. Something _crazy_ was inside of him, making him _move_ things with his fucking mind, and it seemed to activate whenever his fake asthma got bad.

The first thing Eddie did, after running out of the pharmacy, was lock himself in his car and pump his stupid fake medicine down his throat. The placebo worked, like it always did. But once his throat lost its tightness and he could breathe, he felt so ashamed he wanted to puke.

He was right where his mother wanted him. Safe and secure, trusting in the power of medicine.

How could he possibly go home when he knew the truth?

He had always been such a good boy, always listening to mommy and swallowing his meds without question. Over the years it occurred to him, of course, that his asthma tended to flare up at strange times. He could run from a schoolyard bully without gasping for breath, yet giving a speech in front of class had him reaching for his inhaler. But _mommy_ said he had asthma and _mommy_ was always right, and Eddie had no reason to believe she would ever steer him wrong. That she would ever try to deceive him.

And now he had bigger problems on his hands.

Like the idea that fucking superpowers probably existed. And that apparently they could target random forty-year-old losers who obsessed over health for a living.

God, could this get any more insane? Who the hell developed superpowers at _forty?_

Eddie knew one thing for sure. He was _not_ heading home just yet.

He got takeout from the only vegan restaurant in town and ate it in his car, since he currently did not trust himself to sit in public without losing control. While he ate, a bus pulled out in front of him. Its left side was covered in an advertisement for Mix 106.9, the same radio station Richie had on his bumper sticker.

His mother called twice, but Eddie ignored her.

 _If your mommy lets you out of the house, you should really stop by_ , Richie had said, like he actually _wanted_ to see Eddie again.

Eddie could definitely use a laugh. Not that he expected Richie to be funny, if that spider prank was anything to go by, but he could at least laugh at Richie's attempts to be funny. After the day he'd been having, it definitely beat confronting his mother, getting all stressed out, and blasting the roof off their house with his crazy new powers.

*

By the time Eddie reached the Clubhouse, his mother had left three missed calls. She would probably file a missing persons report within the next hour, but at this point Eddie didn't give a shit.

The bar was much noisier when Eddie entered it the second time. He spotted Ben and Beverly at a pool table in the corner, both of them absorbed in their game while some sappy boyband (The Back Avenue Boys?) played over the speakers. He saw no sign of broken glass. Bill and the others had done a pretty good job cleaning up Eddie's mess from earlier.

Eddie was willing to admit, finally, that it _was_ his mess.

The moment Bill and Mike noticed him, they both called out, "Mr. Kaspbrak!" and waved him over to offer him a drink.

"I'm off work now," said Eddie, choosing the only empty stool at the bar. "You can call me Eddie."

"What'll it be, then, Eddie?" said Bill.

"Well, I probably broke all the Perrier, so that's out."

An amused smile broke across Mike's face. " _You_ broke all the Perrier?"

_Fuck._

"I mean, uh, I feel partially responsible," said Eddie, forcing himself to return the smile. "I know it was a coincidence, but maybe my presence encouraged disaster to strike. Nobody likes it when the health inspector comes around, after all. We typically bring a bad vibe to the place."

Mike and Bill bought his stupid cover-up. Unfortunately the Perrier _was_ all gone, so Eddie ordered a beer he didn't like and desperately hoped he looked normal—as opposed to a crazy guy who broke things with his mind, carried fake asthma medicine, and lived with a parent who had lied to him for three solid decades.

He couldn't help noticing, in his attempt to look normal, that the person who invited him back to the Clubhouse was absent.

"Where's your obnoxious friend with the glasses?" he asked Bill.

"Richie's on his way over," said Bill. "He's doing stand-up tonight, so hopefully he'll be too busy to bother you."

"Yeah, he's actually the one who invited me to come back here. I guess he thought I needed a laugh."

"You're about to get one soon," said Mike. "I think I see his car."

 _It's just harmless curiosity,_ Eddie assured himself as he shifted slightly on his barstool to cast a _very_ subtle glance at the red Mustang arriving outside. It wasn't every day he got picked on by a comedian, after all. Richie could have singled him out just to practice his comedy, for all Eddie knew. _Hey, this poor sucker looks gullible!_ Richie was probably thinking.

(Which explained why he kept staring at Eddie?)

He was probably scoping out his latest victim. And he followed Eddie out to his car because he had _such_ a great time harassing him and wanted the chance to torture him some more.

Eddie pretended to be absorbed in his shitty beer when the door swung open and Richie entered the bar, looking like he'd raided Ace Ventura's closet. Eddie suddenly longed to disappear. He shut his eyes and imagined himself vanishing into thin air, but apparently that wasn't one of his crazy new powers. By the time he reopened his eyes and forced himself, once more, to stare down the bottle of his shit-tasting beer, Richie was at the bar counter talking to Bill. Eddie knew he should _not_ be aware of this, but somehow he kept sneaking glances that were beyond his control.

Apparently he couldn't control his mouth either.

"Hey, Jim Carrey called," said Eddie, leaning forward so Richie could get a good look at him. "He said he wants his shirt back!"

And Richie stared back at him, eyes going wide behind his glasses, and immediately dropped the beer Bill gave him.

"Oh, shit, not again," said Richie, as glass shattered on the floor. "Sorry, Bill. I'll take care of it. Can you just, uh, excuse me for a minute?"

Without waiting for Bill's reply, Richie pushed through the crowd and disappeared out the side door, while Bill groaned and asked Mike for the broom.

Eddie didn't know shit about his mysterious powers, but he was pretty sure he did _not_ break the glass this time. He hadn't felt that sickening surge of hysteria that came over him whenever something broke. So if Eddie didn't make the bottle fall, then Richie must have dropped it, which meant Eddie must have startled him.

But why? Richie was the one who fucking invited him here!

"I'm going to go see if he's okay," Eddie said to no one in particular, then slid out of his seat.

The side door opened onto an alleyway. It was home to the Clubhouse's dumpster, which Eddie had inspected that afternoon. The dumpster's lid was currently up and Richie stood in front of it, easily visible in the dark with his colorful shirt.

"Are you always this weird?" Eddie demanded. "Or is it just my—Holy shit, are you _throwing up?_ Is that fucking _puke?_ Oh, my God."

Richie was indeed puking. Once he finished, he turned away from Eddie and fished a Burger King napkin (gross) out of his back pocket to clean himself.

"I have antibacterial wipes," Eddie offered. "But I'll have to throw them to you! No offense, but if you're sick, I can't risk catching it."

"I'm not sick," said Richie, tossing his napkin in the dumpster. "It's more like a—I don't know—a nervous reaction or some shit? Like, do you ever feel so overwhelmed, you just have to fucking puke everywhere?"

"No, of course not! That's disgusting! I—" But Eddie stopped himself, remembering how the lights went out in Mr. Keene's office. How all those bandaids went tumbling off the shelves. "I think I understand what you mean, though. Here." Eddie dug out one of his wipes and tossed it to Richie, who caught it with a smirk.

"Still afraid of my cooties, Mr. Health Inspector?"

"It's Eddie, actually."

"Okay, Eddie. Which rhymes with spaghetti."

"Oh, my God. Are you twelve? Also, you should not be puking in the dumpster! It's highly unsanitary! Why couldn't you use the bathroom like a normal person?"

"I don't fucking know! I panicked!"

"Over what? The broken glass?"

"Yeah," Richie said quickly. "Yeah, it was the glass. I completely lost my shit over that."

Richie shut the dumpster and Eddie tossed him another wipe.

"Do you work here too?" Eddie asked. "Besides doing the comedy thing?"

"No, I'm a DJ. That's my day job. If you've ever listened to Trashmouth Hour on 106.9, that's me."

"Wow, did you seek a job there _just_ because of the channel?"

Richie's smile was still infuriating, but also kind of nice. In an annoying way. "Maybe."

"I don't listen to the radio much, so I can't say I've ever..."

Eddie trailed off, suddenly frozen in dread at the creepy guy standing in the mouth of the alley.

The stranger wore a tattered sleeveless shirt and apparently never got the memo that mullets were dead. The alley was dark, but there were just enough street lights to illuminate the switchblade clutched in his fist.

"Hi there, fags," said the stranger, shuffling a few steps closer. "Which one of you wants to empty your wallet first?"

Eddie knew there was a rational part of his brain that would have, on a normal evening, told him to run back into the bar and lock the fucking door. But he couldn't think. He couldn't even tell Richie to fucking run. All he could do was stare straight ahead, sick and panicky and longing for his stupid fake medicine, until an invisible blast of power sent the stranger flying backwards so that he _slammed_ into the building next door.

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh—_

"What the actual _fuck?_ " Richie stood by the dumpster, gaping at the crumpled body of their would-be attacker. "Did you see that? Wait a minute. Did you fucking _do_ that? Is that how all those bottles fell down earlier? What the fuck, dude? Do you have fucking _mind powers?_ "

This was it. The big moment when someone finally discovered that Eddie was a freak who should probably be locked away.

"Keep your fucking voice down!" said Eddie. "And don't you dare tell anyone."

"Or else what? You'll throw me onto the roof?"

"Maybe I will! Don't push me! I don't know what the hell is wrong with me, but I _can't_ control it, okay? What happened with the bottles earlier was a complete accident. And _this_ was an accident too! He's not dead, is he?"

Richie crept over to the stranger and crouched next to his motionless body. "He's not dead. Just knocked out."

Well. Eddie might be crazy, but at least he wasn't a crazy _murderer_.

"I can't fucking believe this day I've been having," said Eddie, sinking down onto the (probably filthy) steps leading up to the door. "It started when I cracked my neighbor's birdbath. With my mind! I tried to convince myself it was an earthquake, but it turns out my life is basically the plot of _Carrie_ , complete with the insane mother."

The door creaked open behind Eddie. Cigarette smoke and voices drifted out.

"Richie, you know you're on in ten minutes, right?" said Beverly.

"Yeah, Bev. I know. I got held up by a little emergency out here."

"Oh, my God," said Beverly. "Is that a dead body over there?"

"No, he's just some guy who tried to rob us," said Richie. "Eddie knocked him out with a single punch. He's secretly a badass."

"Yeah," said Eddie. He was surprised at the nervous smile on his face. At the sudden feeling that everything _might_ be okay. "You can't tell from looking at me, but I pack quite a punch."

"Well get inside before he wakes up," said Beverly. "I'll lock the door behind you."

The moment Richie drew close to the doorway, Eddie wordlessly gave him the hand sanitizer he kept in his jacket pocket. Richie might claim he wasn't sick, but he still threw up _and_ he touched the dumpster, so Eddie was willing to sacrifice his mini bottle of Purell for the greater good.

When he re-entered the bar, he quickly became aware of three things:

1\. Richie trailing _right_ behind him. Eddie found it unsettling, but not in a bad way.

2\. Yet another boyband song over the speakers. (Was that those Backstreet Guys again? Jeez.)

3\. A horribly familiar face at a table near the back.

Eddie had to stop and wonder if he was hallucinating. It couldn't be. It just _couldn't._

Perfect Stanley Uris was actually _here_ , in a bar whose basement bred dozens of spiders? Shouldn't he be at a yacht club meeting right now? Or winning an Employee of the Month award?

But there he was, sitting alone with his wife Patty, wearing a sweater vest and reading a business magazine.

And then, to make things even weirder, Richie went right up to Perfect Stanley Uris and clapped him on the shoulder like they were old friends. What the fuck.

Richie then started beckoning to Eddie, like _they_ were old friends too.

"Hey, Eddie! Come meet Stan the Man!"

 _Stan the Man? Seriously?_ If it wasn't for Patty's presence at the table, Eddie could easily believe that Perfect Stanley Uris had an identical twin, because this could _not_ be happening right now.

"Hi, Stanley," said Eddie, awkwardly shuffling up to their table. "Hi, Patty. Weird meeting you guys here."

"We show up every week, just to see if Richie's jokes have improved at all," said Perfect Stanley Uris, a.k.a. Stan the Man, his alter ego and possible evil twin.

It was hilarious how Richie's mouth dropped open in shock. "Wait, what the fuck? You two know each other?"

"He's my neighbor across the street," said Eddie. "We don't really _know_ each other. Not very well."

"Maybe we can change that," said Patty. "Are you staying for the show? You can share our table if you want."

What was Eddie supposed to do? Refuse and look like an asshole?

He chose the seat next to Patty, while Stan started telling Richie _all_ about the strange incident with his birdbath that morning. Richie managed to keep a straight face, though he kept meeting Eddie's eyes in this super suspicious way, practically announcing to the world that he knew Eddie's secret.

Holy shit. That was right.

Richie actually _knew Eddie's secret_.

And it didn't feel as horrifying as Eddie thought it would. In fact, he was glad Richie saw him throw that mullet-wearing creep against the wall. It proved he wasn't losing his mind and imagining all this shit, for one thing.

Also it was _nice_ to share a secret with someone. Even if that someone would probably make a joke about it later. Could this night get any _weirder?_

Apparently it could, because Eddie was disappointed when Richie had to leave to go on stage. He blamed this on the fact that he was now stuck there alone with Mr. and Mrs. Perfect Uris (who couldn't be _that_ perfect, actually, if they associated with Richie). Eddie was dying to know if Stan knew about the basement spiders.

"How'd you meet Richie?" Stan asked, making small talk.

Eddie told him, in as few details as possible, the story of the health inspection. Before Stan and Patty could ask more questions, Richie stepped in front of the microphone and Eddie was gratefully silenced.

For the first time since the birdbath incident, Eddie didn't worry about losing control. He wouldn't say that Richie's act was _good_ , exactly. Not the worst he'd ever heard, but definitely not great, especially when Richie started his third mom joke of the evening. But listening to Richie took Eddie's mind off all the bullshit. Who cared if his asthma medicine was fake? Or that his phone kept buzzing with missed calls from his mother? For now, none of it fucking _mattered_.

"I met this really great dude today," said Richie, near the end of his act. "I walk into the bar, wearing _this_ , and the guy takes one look at me and says, 'Hey, Jim Carrey called! He wants his shirt back!'"

The audience laughed, while Eddie's face burned.

"Not the most original joke in the world," Richie continued. "Also not the first time I've been compared to Ace Ventura. But the guy gets points for trying!"

And Richie smiled across the room, locking eyes directly with Eddie. It awakened something that Eddie had always been afraid to admit.

It seemed that today was the day for awakenings.

When Richie cracked one final joke and made his exit, Eddie expected him to return to their table. But Beverly intercepted him and pulled Richie into a hug, then produced a pack of cigarettes and led him outside.

Eddie realized he was staring. And that Stan _noticed_ him staring.

"So," said Eddie, trying for a casual I-don't-give-a-shit tone of voice. "I didn't know Beverly and Richie were together."

"They're not," said Stan. "They're just smoking buddies. Beverly _is_ with Ben, though, so don't get your hopes up."

"Oh, no. I was just curious. You all seem to be a very interesting group of friends."

"We try to be," Stan said dryly. "I think you'll find us pretty ordinary once you get to know us."

"Except for Richie, of course," said Patty.

"Yes, except for Richie, who may or may not be an actual Martian."

Well, if Eddie could develop superpowers, then anything was fucking possible.

*

Several minutes later, he stood alone at the sink in the men's room, meticulously washing his hands, staring into his reflection, thinking, _I'm gay_ for the first time in his life.

 _I'm gay_ , he thought again, a little firmer. A little braver.

Nothing awful happened.

He wasn't struck by lightning or crippled by a seizure. The walls didn't come crashing in. Eddie simply stood there, hands lathered in soap while he stared himself down in the mirror, adding another truth to the whole pile of truths that were unburied that day.

Why bother denying it anymore? After all the shit he had been through that day, what did it matter?

He shut off the faucet with a paper towel, dried his hands, opened the door with another paper towel, and realized these actions signified his entire fucking life. That was Eddie Kaspbrak, always so careful. Always cautious, always holding back, never taking risks. Well fuck _that_. He wanted to do something risky for once. He wanted to show the universe it couldn't fuck with him any longer.

He pushed through the crowded bar, waved absently at Stan and Patty, and stepped out into the night.

Richie and Beverly sat on a bench in front of the Clubhouse, finishing their cigarettes. Watching them, Eddie felt stupidly glad that Beverly was with Ben.

"Hi," said Eddie, standing there with his hands in his jacket pockets, wishing Beverly would just leave already.

Either she could read minds (again, _anything_ was possible) or was scarily good at taking hints.

"I'm going to head back inside," said Beverly, putting out the stub of her cigarette. She smiled at Eddie. "My seat's warm, if you want it."

"That's what she said," Richie added.

"Terrible," Beverly told him. "You can do better than that."

She vanished into the Clubhouse, leaving a lingering mixture of smoke and perfume. Eddie took one hesitant step closer to the bench.

"So, Captain Germaphobe," Richie began, tossing the last of his cigarette on the ground.

Eddie stared at him. " _What?_ "

"That's the superhero name I decided on. You know, if you ever became an _actual_ superhero, with a cape and everything. Captain Germaphobe. He can sweep away bacteria with the force of his mind."

"Okay, no, that is definitely not happening. Also, can you possibly say that any louder? The whole street probably heard you!"

"Then take Beverly's seat so we can whisper! Unless you're still afraid I'm going to infect you with my puke-fest from earlier."

"Gross," said Eddie, but he planted himself on the bench, right next to Richie.

"So," said Richie. He reached up to fiddle with his glasses. "What's mommy going to say about you staying out so late?"

"She's probably having a heart attack as we speak. Which is exactly what she deserves."

"Holy shit. You weren't joking about the _Carrie_ stuff, were you?"

"I guess it's not as bad as that. I've just been through a ton of shit today. My mom's a lunatic, my pharmacist is her partner in crime, I _just_ started developing these crazy fucking powers—"

"Wait, wait, back up," said Richie. "You literally _just_ started having superpowers? Like, today?"

"More like the last week or so. But it seems like today is the day they really started kicking in."

"What the fuck, dude? They just came out of nowhere? You didn't get bit by something weird or fall into a radioactive puddle?"

"I don't think so. Crazy shit just started happening without my permission, and it's always when I'm worried or stressed or pissed off. I guess that's why I showed up here tonight. Your stupid jokes really kept my mind off everything. So, uh, thanks for inviting me. I really needed it."

"Just doing my duty, Captain Germaphobe."

"Ugh, do _not_ call me that."

"Inspector Man? The Amazing Germ Blaster? The _Germinator_? Seriously, though, it is fucking badass to have someone with superpowers in the audience. So if you ever need a laugh or you get bored or whatever, I—uh, we'd all like to see you again."

 _Thanks, I'll keep that in mind_ , Eddie meant to reply.

Instead he blurted out, "I'm gay."

Richie's mouth dropped open. "Oh. Okay."

"I mean, I guess I should warn you ahead of time," said Eddie. His voice was speeding up, along with his heart rate. "Because I'm not really badass or cool or any of that shit. I'm just a nervous, _gay_ , forty-year-old freak who lives with his mom and can't even control his own powers!"

Right on cue, an empty Coke can flew down the sidewalk and smacked into a tree.

Eddie stared at the now-dented Coke can. It was easier than looking at Richie. "Also, I'm a giant fucking coward," he added. "Because this is the first time I've ever said the dreaded G-word out loud about myself. But I guess it's better that you know."

"Okay," Richie said again. He didn't sound horrified. More like somebody in a daze who had just woken from a strange dream. "I, well—shit. Guess I should tell you the reason I threw up earlier."

_Please don't be contagious. Please don't be contagious._

"I am also... not straight," said Richie, drawing the words out slowly.

_Please don't be—wait, what?_

"Richie, I swear if you're joking right now, I will figure out a way to explode both your balls."

"Dude, this is probably the most serious I've _ever_ been! It's the reason I dropped that beer Bill gave me and ran outside to puke my guts out. It was a lot for me to deal with. I mean, I guess I always _kind of_ knew I liked both girls and guys, but you went and fucking proved it for me. You know that moment when I walked into the bar this afternoon, while you were ranting about bugs in the basement? That was it, man. I felt like Cupid shot me in the ass with one of his stupid little arrows. And then when I saw you again tonight, I fucking panicked."

Twenty different feelings were running around in Eddie's head, all of them competing for attention. He understood what compelled Richie to puke everything up.

"I can't believe this," said Eddie, his voice shaking from all the _feelings_. "My neurotic obsession with health and safety actually awakened your sexuality?"

"Hey, I'm not the only one whose sexuality has been awakened! Or else we wouldn't be having this conversation!"

"All right, fine. You caught me. Your dumb jokes pulled me out of the closet!"

"And since you're just out of the closet, I'm going to assume you're not seeing anyone?"

"No," said Eddie. He was starting to feel like he might explode, but not in the crazy way that signified his powers activating. This was a terrifyingly _good_ explosion in the works. "I am definitely not seeing anyone."

"Cool. I, um—I'm not either." Richie was fidgeting on the bench, restlessly vibrating with either too much energy or too many nerves—or both. "So... do you want to go out sometime? Shop at the vitamin store, or whatever you do for fun?"

Vitamins were _not_ something to joke about, but Eddie let it slide and gave Richie his phone number.

His phone buzzed yet again, signaling the five hundred and seventy-eighth call from his mother, and Eddie figured he might as well put her out of her misery.

"Hi-mom-I'm-alive-I'll-be-home-soon!" Eddie shouted in one breath, then abruptly hung up before she could shout back.

"Shit," said Richie. "I have _got_ to meet your mom."

"I hope you never do," said Eddie. As he pocketed his phone, his hand brushed against something hard and plastic. His fingers traced the familiar shape, which had once brought him so much comfort, and curled into a fist. "Would you mind stepping into the alley with me for a minute? There's something I need to take care of."

"Okay, wow. I've never actually done _that_ to a guy before, so don't get mad if I fuck it up—"

"That's not what I meant, dickhead," said Eddie, but he was smiling. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually _enjoyed_ himself as much as he had this night. "I need to test my— _you know_ —my powers. I don't want anyone to see."

Thankfully the mullet-wearing creep really _was_ alive and had vacated the alleyway. Eddie stood at the center, avoiding the dumpster, and urged himself to _breathe_ as he withdrew his inhaler and set it on the ground.

 _Here we go, you worthless piece of shit_ , he thought, staring down the inhaler, letting emotion build inside him like a growing storm. _I'm not sick. I'm not sick. I am NOT sick_.

His inhaler exploded, showering the alley with bits of plastic and drops of fake medicine.

The placebo was gone. Eddie was _free_.

And it was all worth it to see the awestruck look on Richie's face.

**Author's Note:**

> And the two of them moved in together, put Mrs K in a retirement home, adopted a little dog, and lived happily fucking after. 
> 
> The conversation between Eddie and Mr. Keene is based on a similar scene from the novel. I thought it would be fun to recreate that scene with Eddie as an adult.


End file.
